


the sound of the lost gone found

by evandre



Category: Z Nation (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Episode Related, F/F, Femslash, George's muscles, Season/Series 05, Sharing a Bed, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 00:43:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17131799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evandre/pseuds/evandre
Summary: “We can move the books, Warren,” George says, waving a hand towards the mattress. “You can have the bed.” Neither of them mentions the fact that there are plenty of other unoccupied, fully furnished rooms they could set Warren up in.The scene in George's room in 05x04 ends... differently.





	the sound of the lost gone found

**Author's Note:**

> Rare pairs will be the death of me.
> 
> Thanks again to [spookykingdomstarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight) for awesome beta help.

George holds her solar-powered lantern aloft, its diffuse light glancing off the brick walls of the shadowy corridor as it sways in her hand. Warren and Doc trail behind her, close enough that she can feel Warren’s hands graze against the back of her coat as they walk. Their plodding footsteps clop loudly against the linoleum floor, reverberating in the silence that surrounds them.

She stops in front of the door to the dorm room she’s claimed as her residence in Pacifica, saying her usual silent prayer of remembrance as her lantern shines upon the plaque affixed to the door. 

_We may not know your name, but you are not forgotten. May you have found either refuge or mercy in your journey._

Every time she enters this room she wonders who used to be assigned to it pre-Z — if they were a bright-eyed freshman like she had been at the beginning of the apocalypse, if they were a star on the track team or a biology major or perhaps someone who struggled as much with calculus as she had. There had been few items remaining in the room when she and her band of survivors had settled here, essential supplies and personal effects having either been ransacked by previous travelers, or snatched up and taken along in a hasty escape. George had always hoped for the latter, hoped that the prior occupant of Brewster Hall, Room 224, was still out there somewhere, safe and in possession of their family photos and favorite band t-shirt, and not a rotting corpse buried in the ground — or worse, a rotting corpse still aimlessly wandering across the land. 

As George grasps the doorknob, Doc hangs back, leaning his lanky form against the wall next to her door.

“ ‘Night, George,” he says, giving her a crisp, mock military-style salute. “Don’t let the bed bugs — or the Z’s — bite.”

George laughs, raising two fingers to her forehead and saluting in return. “Good night, Doc.” With his bushy beard, wiry hair, and laid-back vibe, the man reminds her of a cross between a kindly grandpa and some of her more “flower child,” weed-loving college professors. His easy-going nature and sense of humor seem like they’ll be a good fit for Newmerica — a good fit for a world attempting to return to some semblance of normalcy, a world that has been grim and ugly for far too long. She can see why he’s been an integral part of Warren’s team, and why Warren seems to regard him so highly. 

Opening the door, she enters the dark, cramped room, its campus housing design not leaving space for much more than a compact desk, a narrow bookshelf, and a single twin bed. She glances back, doing a double-take over her shoulder when Warren follows her inside instead of bidding her goodnight as well. 

“Thought you said you were going to keep watch with Doc?” George asks, her brows furrowed. 

“That little ‘town hall’ we just had out there was heavy as hell,” Warren says, shutting the door behind them. She strides over to the opposite end of the room, propping herself against the edge of the desk situated in the corner. Her own solar lantern dangles from one hand, illuminating her face from below, its golden glow highlighting the rich, bronze undertones of her dark brown skin. “Just wanted to make sure you were doing ok.”

George takes a deep breath, exhaling in an elongated sigh. “I’m frustrated. Angry. Disappointed.” 

The residents of Newmerica are scared, and when people are frightened, they tend to adopt a myopic vision of what they think will make them safer. George can’t fathom that there’s actually talk of isolating part of their community, of cordoning off people’s loved ones like animals in a cage, like so many horror stories of the past that she had hoped they had all learned from.

She frowns, running a hand through her hair. “We’ve strived to be better than this, to be united rather than divided.” 

“But you did a great job tonight calming people down.”

George hadn’t been the only one to pacify the uproarious crowd, and she’s thankful that people like Henry and Warren don’t share the same sentiments as the anti-Talker faction. Warren’s speech about fear and acts of hate spreading like a disease to rival that of the ZN1 virus had been the tipping point, had primed the group to be receptive to George’s appeals for empathy and compassion.

“What you said out there helped. Really put things in perspective, made them think,” George says, their synchronous exchange today reminding her of the day they had met, the day Warren had swooped in from out of nowhere like her own personal savior. Even though George had been cowering and trembling with fear, haunted by the gruesome sight of her friends dying and turning to ravenous monsters before her eyes, Warren’s kind yet commanding presence had guided her to the safety of the waiting evacuation truck. Despite George’s lack of combat experience, the two of them had fallen effortlessly into stride next to one another, defending each other in turn as they hacked and slashed their way through a gauntlet of Z’s, saving each other’s lives multiple times in the span of a few seconds. 

The forlorn expression on George’s face lifts as she smiles wistfully at Warren. “I guess we make a good team.”

Warren smiles in return, matching her wistful expression. “Always have,” she says, her nostalgia-laced tone indicating that she too recalls how in tune they had been with each other, though mere strangers at the time. “But you’re the one who’s been in the trenches with these folks all these years. I see why they put their trust in you.”

“Yeah, but for how long? I did my best and it all went to shit. First the bomb at the polls in Altura, then this nonsense with taking rights away from Talkers — it’s like everything we’ve worked so hard for, every bit of progress, is unraveling before my eyes.” George raises a hand, kneading at the bridge of her nose. “And I’m so goddamn tired.” 

“Shit, I’m sorry, I should …” Warren says, pushing off of the desk and gesturing towards the door.

“No, no, you’re fine.” George waves a dismissive hand at her. “It’s not really the kind of tired that can be fixed by sleep, you know?”

The corners of Warren’s mouth lift into a grimace of commiseration. “Oh, I know that kind of tired very well.”

George hangs her head, her gaze directed at the floor, poking at a gouge in one of the linoleum tiles with the toe of her bulky boot. “I just don’t think I can be who they want me to be.”

“Yes, you can. Because you have to,” Warren says as she steps closer. George’s chest tightens, the air between them becoming charged, intimate, as Warren plants herself directly in front of her. “Because you know, the way that I do, there is nobody else but us. See, we don’t get to have doubts, because when we do, we hesitate — and that’s when people die.”

George blinks rapidly, the sting of tears welling at the corners of her eyes, the burden of being a de facto leader weighing heavy on her heart. Warren had protected her all those years ago, had been willing to risk her own life to help one more person survive, and now George is just trying to do the same for those of them that remain. “I’m tired of seeing people die.”

“I know you are, George. And I know you can do this, can build a world we’d all be proud to be a part of. And I will back you a hundred percent. But I’ve gotta ask — is there _any_ part of you that suspects that Dante was responsible for that bomb?”

George raises her head, shaking it emphatically. “Dante is like a brother to me. It’d be like Doc betraying you.”

“Then that’s all I needed to know,” Warren says with a decisive nod. She reaches out, wrapping her palm around George’s upper arm. “And you’ve got me now, George. Whatever happens — we’re in this together.”

“Together,” George says, covering Warren’s hand with her own and giving it an affectionate squeeze. She lets her hand rest atop Warren’s for a long moment, both of them unmoving. George can give an impassioned speech to a room full of panicked people, but she doesn’t have the words to show how much Warren’s unwavering support — believing in her, trusting her, when there’s so much she doubts about by herself — means to her.

Clearing her throat roughly, George breaks free from Warren’s grip. She turns away, shrugging out of her long, thick overcoat and hanging it on a hook on the wall before facing Warren again.

Warren’s eyes widen as her gaze drifts down to George’s exposed arms, lingering there before flitting away. “Jesus,” she says, murmuring so quietly George barely hears her. She tucks a strand of her long, flowing hair behind her ear and quickly pivots back towards the desk, fiddling with the books scattered on its surface. “You’ve, uh, got half the library in here.” Her voice rises as she continues to peruse George’s book collection, flipping one of the tomes over to scan its back cover. 

George squints in confusion at her reaction, then shrugs one shoulder. “I always loved to read. And now it’s so important,” she says, stepping next to Warren, her heart skipping a beat as their thighs brush in the tight quarters. She rests a reverent hand atop a copy of James Baldwin’s _The Fire Next Time_ , stroking its tattered cover. The rips and scratches and worn spots are rough beneath her fingertips. Finding the semi-intact library here in Pacifica had been a gift beyond measure, one they need to protect and preserve. “There’s so much humanity contained in these pages, so many things we can’t lose. Can’t ever forget.”

Warren sets her lantern down onto the edge of the desk, the light now focused on the numerous stacks of books piled high on the sole bed in the room, almost completely covering the mattress. 

“Well it looks like these books are gonna get a better night’s sleep than you,” she says, her voice dropping to a teasing timbre. 

“I can’t sleep on a bed.” George bends down, dragging her inflatable camping pad from underneath the bed frame, placing it on the floor directly next to the bed. “Eight years sleeping on the ground. I sleep better here.”

Warren huffs out a rueful laugh. “Now that’s just sad.”

“Yeah. I guess it is.” George places her lantern on top of a teetering stack of books, then plucks two pillows off of the mattress, tossing them down onto her sleeping mat. She perches on the tiny section of the mattress now clear of clutter and begins unlacing her boots.

“Can’t be much fun when you have _company_ over, either,” Warren says, suggestively lifting one eyebrow.

“Yeah, well, not exactly like there’s been much of that,” George says with a grumble. She kicks her boots off, tucking them under the bed frame near the end of her camping pad, ready to be put back on at a moment’s notice should another crisis arise. “If I thought the pool of available queer women was small _pre_ -apocalypse, well…” 

“No?” Warren picks up another book from the desk, absently thumbing through its pages. “What about Cara? You two seem pretty, uh… _close_.”

“We’re just friends,” George says in a rush, inwardly groaning at how quickly the qualifier comes spilling forth. “Good friends, but just friends. She’s been a great ally throughout everything we’ve been trying to accomplish with Newmerica.”

“Hmm,” Warren says in a curious, lilting pitch. “Good to know.”

“What about you?” George asks, her palms growing clammy and damp with sweat at Warren’s potential answer. “Anyone… special?”

“No,” Warren says, the corner of her mouth quirking into a small, sad smile for just a moment. “No one special.”

“Oh,” George says, releasing the breath she’d been holding, wincing when her reply doesn’t come out as noncommittal as she’d been aiming for. But her relief is tempered by the note of sorrow on Warren’s face, and George drums the fingers of one hand against her leg, contemplating prying further. She knows about Operation Bitemark, about Warren’s escape from Zona and her role in the Black Rainbow “reset,” but she suspects that most of the stories she’s been told in the brief time since Warren’s return have been the abbreviated, sugarcoated versions. Whether through death, treachery, or worse, all survivors of the zombie apocalypse have lost people they’ve cared about, and she doesn’t imagine that Warren’s experience has differed — even the supposed safe-haven of Newmerica has already taken a member of Warren’s team.

“It’s late,” Warren says, cutting off any further questions. She retrieves her lantern and steps around George, headed for the door. “I should, uh, I should let you get some sleep.”

George stops her with a gentle hand on her wrist. “You should get some rest, too.”

Warren doesn’t shake her off, just nods her chin at the closed door. “I’ll stay up with Doc, keep watch.”

“I’m sure Doc can handle it.”

Warren quirks an eyebrow high onto her forehead. “You ever seen Doc on guard duty? He’ll be sawing logs within five minutes, if he ain’t already.”

George listens for a moment — she can indeed already hear faint snoring emanating from the hallway — and chuckles. “Well, even a snoring watchman is better than none at all. I know we seem to have walked into a shitstorm here in Pacifica, but I really think we’re safe. At least for tonight. And as amazing as you are, you’re not invincible.” She squeezes Warren’s wrist, running a soothing thumb over the back of it. Her thumb skims over a few small, raised scars dotted along her arm, but Warren’s skin remains surprisingly smooth for someone who’s been quite literally fighting for her life for years. “The past few days have been insane, and there’s more rough ones ahead. We won’t be good to anyone if we’re exhausted.”

Warren purses her lips and cocks her head to one side, her eyes locking onto George’s. 

George releases Warren’s wrist and crosses her arms over her chest. “I am perfectly willing to fight you on this.”

Warren’s intense, onyx eyes narrow into a playfully menacing glare, but George doesn’t waver under her unyielding gaze. 

Another few loaded seconds tick by, and George transfers her weight to her other foot, jutting one hip out, tightening her arms around her chest as she does so.

Warren finally cracks, her eyes darting down to George’s flexing forearm and bicep muscles once again, and now George understands her earlier reaction. 

When George’s group had reclaimed this college campus as Pacifica, they’d found the old gym had remained largely unscathed, and George has put it to good use, lifting weights, doing round after round of pull-ups, venting her irritation after contentious town meetings by pounding on the hanging heavyweight bag. She might not be Schwarzenegger-ripped, but she’s certainly no longer the scrawny college freshman that had lived off of packs of instant ramen, and Dante had taken to calling her “Muscles” in private years ago, just to be a sassy little shit. Now, the tips of her ears blaze with heat, her skin tingling at the thrill of Warren’s appreciative gaze. 

Warren takes a step back, one hand scratching at the back of her neck. “So, you think I’m amazing, huh?”

George grins, already triumphant in getting Warren to break first in their stare-down, and sensing further victory. “ _Beyond_ amazing.” 

Warren tilts her chin down and looks up at George from under her lashes, a coy smile on her lips. “ _Flatterer_.” She rolls her eyes and raises her palms in the air in acquiescence. “Fine. You win.”

With her lantern held high, Warren searches the room, finding another blanket and a rolled-up yoga mat — even thinner than George’s camping pad — stashed on a shelf. She places her lantern down on the floor, turning its brightness down to a muted glimmer, then unfurls the mat a few inches away from George’s sleeping pad. 

“We can move the books, Warren,” George says, waving a hand towards the mattress. “You can have the bed.” Neither of them mentions the fact that there are plenty of other unoccupied, fully furnished rooms they could set Warren up in. 

“Nah, it’s fine,” Warren says, grunting as she sits down on her mat and begins to drape the blanket over her legs. “I’ve slept on worse.”

George snorts and shakes her head. “Stubborn.” She passes one of her pillows over to Warren and flicks her lantern off, stationing it next to her boots. Shaking out her own blanket, she beds down on her back, next to Warren on the floor.

“You’re one to talk. Perfectly damn good bed, covered in books,” Warren says, muttering under her breath as she plumps and fluffs the pillow before propping it beneath her head.

“I know, I know,” George says, closing her eyes and yawning wide as she wraps her blanket around her.

As George’s breathing slows, sleep pulling at her, the flimsy, rubbery mat underneath Warren squeaks and shifts while she adjusts her position. Silence descends upon the tiny room as Warren’s movements finally cease, but even in her drowsy state, even without knowing what direction Warren has settled in, George senses a focused scrutiny aimed her way, boring into her as though she were being sighted through a rifle scope.

“Hard to sleep when you’re staring at me.” She opens her eyes and glances to the left, smirking as she spies Warren resting on her side, facing her, her suspicion confirmed. 

George expects a cheeky smirk back but the smile gracing Warren’s face is surprisingly tender, even a little bashful. Amplified by the subdued lantern light above their heads, her eyes twinkle with an affectionate gleam. 

“In all this excitement I haven’t had a chance to tell you how much I like your hair.”

“Oh,” George says, her cheeks flooding with warmth. She stretches and squirms beneath her blanket, the unexpected compliment jarring her from the edge of sleep. “Uh, thanks. It was out of necessity at first — shorter hair, less for Z’s to potentially grab hold of. But then I decided I liked it.”

Warren hums, the sound soft and warm. “I do, too. It really suits the badass vibe you’re giving off these days.”

“Badass?” George huffs out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Not exactly how I would describe myself.”

“Well you should. You’ve accomplished so many incredible things here, George. You’re on the verge of bringing democracy _for all_ back to a lawless land. I know there have been setbacks, but there always will be. Doesn’t make you any less effective a leader. Any less a badass.” 

“I’m not trying to be anything in particular. I’m just trying to … rebuild. Maybe motivate those of us that are left to be a little bit better than before.”

“I know,” Warren says, and her understanding tone, that fond smile she still has on her face kicks off a trembling flutter in George’s stomach that leaves her feeling about as far from a hardened badass as one can get. “Doesn’t mean I can’t also think you’re tough as shit.”

George swallows hard, the heat in her cheeks cascading downwards and alighting a pleasant fire in her chest. “Thanks, Warren. You don’t know how much your opinion means to me.” She turns away again, eyes fixed upon the ceiling, unable to hold Warren’s piercing gaze without turning an even more embarrassing crimson, without her own eyes revealing too much. “How much _you_ mean to me.”

Warren doesn’t respond verbally but instead takes a deep, shuddering breath, and the air in the room shifts, deviating wondrously off-kilter, as she scoots closer on the floor. George stays rooted to her spot, limbs frozen, but her pulse surges at Warren’s proximity. Fresh water has been in scarce supply since the Zompocalypse, proper bathing a luxury far too infrequently taken advantage of. But somehow Warren still smells incredible, like sweet, fragrant jasmine, with a hint of earthiness from the leather jacket she rarely takes off. George breathes deep, savoring the enthralling scent.

“You know, for a minute there,” Warren says, voice hushed and serious, “I uh, I thought I lost you in that blast.” She pauses, her forceful swallow resounding in the still room. “Just found you again. And I thought I lost you.”

Unable to hide from Warren’s gaze any longer, wondering if she dares dream that Warren might be as affected by her as she is by Warren, George rolls onto her side, finding herself almost nose-to-nose with Warren. “I’m still here,” she says, low and quiet, matching Warren’s weighty tone. “Not planning on going anywhere, terrorist bomb or not.”

“Good. Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Warren’s smile widens, radiant and content, and the pounding in George’s chest turns into a thunderous rush when she feels Warren’s hand in her hair.

Warren skims her fingers through the longer strands, and George sighs softly, her eyelids fluttering shut at the silky glide of Warren’s fingers. A red-hot current sparks and jumps along her spine as Warren’s nails gently scrape across her scalp.

“Yeah,” Warren says as she runs her thumb along the shaved side of George’s head, occasionally grazing the outer shell of her ear with her movements, “this sure suits you.”

George turns her head into her electric touch, unabashedly nuzzling Warren’s hand. For how little time they’ve actually spent together, she and Warren have always had a surprisingly comfortable habit of touching each other — an enthusiastic embrace in greeting, a palm on the shoulder in comfort, gripping a bicep in warning. Before she had even seen Warren’s face, before they had learned each other’s names or fought their way through their inaugural onslaught of Z’s, Warren had wrapped her strong, capable body around George’s, sacrificing her own safety to shield her from a grenade blast. George’s very first awareness of Warren was that of Warren’s body enfolded around hers. 

But they’ve never touched each other like this, never had their hands on each other solely for indulgence, for exploration, with no other eyes upon them, with no immediate disaster or frenzied zombie horde looming in the background. It’s been so long since George has been caressed like this, so long since her body has been employed for anything other than fighting or killing or scrounging for survival. And the fact that it’s _Warren_ touching her like this — Warren, who protected her, who inspired her to protect others, who came into and out of her life like a whirlwind, then returned just as unexpectedly — seems so fitting, so inevitable. With all the madness, improbabilities, and cruel twists of fate the universe has forced upon them after unleashing the zombie virus, the two of them finding their way back to each other, finding their way to this moment, feels like some sort of cosmic occurrence that’s actually gone right for a change.

George opens her eyes and thinks she sees similar thoughts, similar emotions, that note of affection coupled with a hint of yearning, reflected in Warren’s dark, slightly hooded eyes. But Warren’s her friend, a mentor, has saved her life ten times over. The amount of respect George has for her is immeasurable, and there’s no way she’d risk bungling what relationship they have now for a misstep here. But then Warren’s eyes drop in a pointed glance down at George’s lips, flashing with desire at George’s accompanying hitch of breath, and that’s all the confirmation they need from each other. There’s a final beat, a charged pause, then they draw towards each other, in tandem, in this together just like they are in so much else.

Their lips meet, desperate and eager, and George suppresses a whimper at how good, how _right_ this feels, that this too is now a part of their story.

Warren’s hand in her hair tightens, pulling her closer, and the kiss deepens as the distance between them dissolves fully, both of them only half on their respective sleeping mats. Arms and hands flying in a frantic scramble, they shove at their blankets as they each wriggle out from underneath them.

George nips lightly at Warren’s plump lower lip and Warren moans, releasing her hair and grabbing a fistful of her thin, white shirt as she arches into her. Sliding one hand up Warren’s side, George grasps the lapel of Warren’s jacket, the cool leather a stark contrast against her feverish skin. She’s not sure how far this will go, how far either of them really _needs_ this to go — just the touch of Warren’s lips on hers has already satisfied a deep, longing hunger in her that even she had not fully realized the enormity of. But the blazing fire generating between the two of them is heady, palpable, and she yearns to bask in it as fully as possible.

Still clutching the jacket’s lapel, George pulls back slightly, searching Warren’s eyes. At her sharp nod, George peels the garment off of her.

“It can all go, George,” Warren says in a heated whisper against her lips.

A white-hot knot of arousal settles low in George’s belly at being given such a clear-cut green light, but she pauses, resting her forehead against Warren’s. 

“Thought we were sleeping,” she says, her chest heaving as she pants vigorously.

“We can sleep when we’re dead.” Warren’s hand drifts under the hem of her shirt, dancing lightly along the delicate skin above her waistline, George’s eyes rolling back in her head at the blissful sensation. “Which could be before morning, for all we know.”

“Good point,” George says, diving back in to taste Warren’s lips again. 

They probably should sleep, but their reality doesn’t afford them much of a guarantee of a tomorrow, much of an assurance that they will have the chance to be with each other, like this, at another time. And this — bodies intertwined, supple yet battle-scarred skin sliding against her own, Warren’s mouth opening up to her as gasps of pleasure escape — might not technically be the idle restfulness of slumber, but it might be the kind of connection that helps soothe that part of her that’s been unable to gain any serenity from sleep. 

“Besides, I’ve been thinking about you, about _this_ ,” Warren says, voice full of awe and wonder as she brushes the knuckles of her other hand down George’s cheek, “since the day I saw that truck drive off with you in the back of it.”

George inhales sharply at the admission, any lingering guilt about another sleepless night vanishing from her mind. It’s replaced by the image of Warren growing smaller and smaller in her view, a cacophony of grenade blasts, rifle fire bursts, and inhuman shrieks filling the air as the evac truck screeched away in the opposite direction. She’d been too preoccupied with shock and the pandemonium around her at the time to dwell on the immense pang of disappointment and worry she had felt as Warren had remained in the fray, left to an unknown end. But now she knows without a doubt that she’s not the only one that fateful day left an indelible mark on, knows that she’s not the only one marveling at the fact that they’re back together again — hearts still beating — after all the miles and journeys between them. 

She snakes a hand under Warren’s ripped, black tank top, her fingertips drawing circles against the velvet-soft skin at the small of her back. 

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” George says, dipping her head into the crook of Warren’s neck, drawing her lips, her tongue, against the salty-sweet skin. “Fucking apocalypse.”

Warren grabs her head with both hands, drawing George away from her neck, their lips meeting again in a searing kiss.

Ragged breaths, softly uttered moans and sighs quickly drown out any lingering echo of Doc’s droning snores, and George offers up another silent prayer that any further chaos — zombie attacks, explosions, political brawls — will remain at bay, that they can have at least this one night of peace. If the cosmic luck that brought Lieutenant Roberta Warren back into her orbit after all these years can hold out for just a while longer, Doc and the books will be the only ones getting much sleep tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from A Fine Frenzy's "Now Is The Start."
> 
> Also I'm so mad at SyFy right now.


End file.
